The Golden Scar
The inscription was not written on stone, but on the subcutaneous layer of my own skin, a golden scar that pulsed in time with the hydraulic groaning of the city’s ventilation system. I woke in the dormitory of the Ministry of Continuity, the air thick with the scent of ozone and wet iron, and reached up to touch the mark. It was warm. It was always warm. In the dream that had just fractured, I...
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